The battle was over. I had won, but why didn't I feel like a winner? Why wasn't I proud? I watched the casket being lowered to the ground. It was the best one I could afford. Oak wood and a nice white lining. Ollie locked inside for eternity. He was dressed in his best suit, and for the last time I brushed his curly brown hair.
I held back sobs as the dirt was placed on top of his resting place. I turned out of the cemetery my heart heavy. I squeezed my hand into a fist, half expecting to have Ollie's hand on my shoulder calming me down, half knowing that he wasn't coming back.
The ride home was silent. I didn't want to listen to the radio, and no one wanted to come back to my house. I peered at the hands gripping the steering wheel. My hands. The ones who shot the gun, the gun that killed my son.
They were white knuckled and wrinkled. These hands caused so much damage to the world, but they never had an impact like this. The eyes in my head had tears behind every blink. They were cold again, and they were tired.
I turned into my house, noting that now that I was a murderer, I needed security. I lazily closed the car door. Remembering. I walked to the door of the house, slamming it behind me. Rage built in my stomach.
I stormed over to the kitchen table and threw my hands across it, littering the floor in shards of glass and split drinks. I felt like I was in a dream, like my body wasn't near me. I collapsed into a chair and began to sob.
How the tables had turned. If Ollie were here he would be calming me and promising it would be better. I wish I didn't tell him about the plan. What if I let things sit? Ollie would still be here.
I put my hands on my forehead and just sat. Not wanting to be seen. I was alone. And I was evil. It's all my fault, it's all my fault.
After countless hours of walking around this house I decided to go to my bedroom. The light yellow room was neatly cleaned. The bed was made and a soft blanket was draped at the bottom. I wrapped myself in the blanket and remembered watching Ollie wake up in this room.
He was panicked, I could see it in his eyes. His breath was quick and his soft features were twisted in pain. I wanted noting more then to fix it. Make his pain go away. He groaned and cried. I was so sorry for putting a child though that beating. But if I would interfere the villain, my father, would kill Ollie.
He left bashful teardrops in his hands and I reminded him that I was sorry. He was not going to stay a prisoner for long. That was the day I decided. I would adopt Ollie. He would have been great. A real man. Loving, kind, smart. And I took that all away from him.
I fell asleep to the memories of us.
The next morning I got two guards to watch my house for mobs, protesters, and my father. I woke up and ate chocolate cake.
"Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Ollie. Happy Birthday to you." I croaked out before eating. The cake had a bitter taste to it. So much that I had to leave it sit on the counter and move onto other things.
I walked into the side room, where squishy's cage was. I placed a piece of turtle food in his dish. "Good morning squishy."
The house was ear piercingly quiet. There was no life here anymore. Not a cry, not a giggle of family. I sat on the couch looking out the window. Not watching TV. Not reading. Just sitting.
I pulled myself away from the window, no longer wanting it's company. I walked up the stairs into a white room filled with bookshelves. The bed wasn't made and there were clothes sprawled across the floor. In the chair in the corner sat a book. Almost read through.
Memories flooded back from two days ago. His birthday. My jaw clenched and my heart dropped. I sunk into the chair and held the book close to my chest. I opened "Moby Dick" to chapter 1. I read it out loud. Hoping someone was listening.
I read through two chapters stumbling over simple words. I was getting choked up. I promised him that we would decorate the room. All that was put up was a poster of his favorite movie.
I closed the blinds and waked out of the room, shutting the door behind me. "Sleep well son."
It was close to noon when I began to get peckish. I ate the rest of the cake from breakfast, just as bitter. The house was quiet after that. I could hear every beat of my heart. It was hollow.
The hole in it was bullet shaped, it was letting in too much pain. My heart couldn't take it all. It grew heavier with each breath, each thought, each memory.
I walked down into my basement. A large room with a office table and a TV. In the corer there was a cell with a metal bed chained to the wall. Outside of the cage was a hook in the wall. It had my cape draped carefully around it.
"All I wanted was some warmth and comfort..." The phrase rang in my ears.
I pulled the cape off the hook and wrapped it around my broad shoulders. I glided up the stairs and out the door. I walked, my cape billowing behind me, all the way to a large oak tree. People looked at me oddly and they moved their kids closer when I waltzed by.
Under the oak tree was a large grey stone. It was just another boulder to a normal person, but it was so much more to me. Under the boulder laid my son, dead. The word on the stone said, "Ollie. Great hero, great son." He was so much more.
He was my joy. My life.
The snow began to pile up on the rock already. I wasn't going to stay much longer. I took off my cape and snuggled it around the rock.
"I thought you would want this for warmth Ollie." I smiled down at him and left for home.
The day was long, snow kept falling. And the fire wouldn't be able to warm my heart.
Then the alarm sounded from outside. Someone was at my door. I put on a mask of anger and malice.
I strutted to the door and flung it open. My guards armed behind me. I threw my hand up signalling them to stop.
On my front step stood a near death boy. His head was shaved and his chest was bare. You could see all of his bones. The snow littered his arms along with burns and scrapes. A fresh cut ran from his hairline to his jaw. It was bleeding. He clutched a stuffed animal turtle to his chest.
I knelt down to the young boys level. "How old are you, son?"
"I'm 10." He responded. My heart broke with that. I scooped him into my arms and pulled him out of the snow. Running my hand over the bleeding cut. It was now turning a sick shade of red and purple.
"What happened to you."
He hissed at my contact with the cut. His eyes raced back and forth looking for an exit. I set him down. He was too small for his age. I assured him that I wouldn't hurt him and asked again. "What happened to you?"
"Training."
